"It's happening again, isn't it?" "I'm afraid so love, I'm afraid so."

Breakfast. That's how it started. You bought me a strawberry and cream tea because you thought Earl Grey would be too boring.

The Friday before I was due to head out of town, we were sprawled out on grass. You told me there was something about me. I spent the rest of that day by the river, sitting in the rain, with Rachel Yamagata on repeat, writing endlessly about you.

I love you.

And these days, and especially on nights like tonight, I wish desperately that I could be what you want and need. At every turn and corner. I think I used to be. I think you've told me before.

But needs and wants change all the time.

For someone who's hated fitting into moulds, I've found myself wishing for one, for you. It's painful as much as it is amusing, the thought.

There's so much to write. It's right here, right on the tip of my tongue, slipping out my fingers, but at the same time, there isn't much else I know how to say.

This is it, really. This is pretty much it, if you must know.

I just.

I don't know how, but I wish I were more what you wanted.

But I know, more than most, not to push things. To let things fall where they will.

It's half past twelve, and I've been ready for bed since quarter to ten.

I'm bordering on delirium, I want to know what to say.

I'm falling apart.

I'm falling apart.

I'm,

I'm falling apart.

oh, and who would've known, there'd still be bits of me left to break. oh, who would've known?